Flowers For A Ghost
by Silver Bones in a Green Sauce
Summary: He had never meant for things to get so bad, not really. It hadn't been a game; it hadn't been on purpose. It was a mistake, one he would always have to live with. Someone else was paying for it though. Kyman, Cutters/Buttman.
1. Chapter 1

_Blood was splattered on everything: his clothes, the floor, the walls. He could hear splashing sounds; the police were stepping in the pools of liquid as they carted the other boy—the living one, not the corpse; he could still see it, the lifeless eyes resting on him—away from the room. Someone was trying to coax him out of the corner that he had holed himself up in—Stan? His parents? A policeman?—but he wasn't listening to them. Had he really seen . . . he didn't know what to call it. It seemed like a nightmare. He had never meant . . . He didn't think it would be like . . . _

_He closed his eyes; he didn't **want **to think, not anymore. He didn't want to see a pair of empty eyes staring up at him. He didn't want to remember—if he could forget, just for a moment, what had happened, he'd consider himself the luckiest person in the world. It was hard to believe that minutes, mere **minutes**, before he hadn't even **processed **what had happened. He was still having trouble **understanding **it, but thinking about it was so much easier when he was having to **look **at the problem in the face—and that was what it was, a problem. What else could it be?_

_His thoughts were racing. His chest was heaving. Was he going into shock? Would someone who was going into shock **realize **that they were going into shock? _

_He covered his ears, but it did no good; the thoughts, thoughts that he would probably be having for the rest of his life—because, really, how could something like that happen and you **not **spend the rest of your life thinking about it?—wouldn't leave him alone._

_His stomach began to heave. He felt light headed. He wanted to pass out to get away from the situation, even for just a little while. Relief wouldn't come though, and he did the only thing that he could **think **to do—he began to cry._

Chapter One

Months Earlier

Kyle had known since he was thirteen that he was gay. At the age of fourteen, he told Stan. His best friend was, naturally, accepting. He told Ike at the age of fifteen, and though his brother ripped on him for it, he knew that the kid didn't care. Next came Wendy, who he didn't actually _want _to tell but told anyway because he knew she could keep a secret and because it'd help get her off his back about dating Bebe; plus, showing that he trusted her made Stan happy, and after everything that Stan had done for him over the years, making him happy was something that Kyle tried to do. At the age of seventeen, Stan, Ike, and Wendy were still the only people that he had admitted his sexuality to. Kenny also knew, he was sure, because there was little that Kenny _didn't _know about sexuality. Besides, they had known each other since they were kids, and Kenny was the type of person who observed people well. Surely he would have connected the dots by the time they were juniors in high school? That out of the way, Kyle was _fine _with his sexual preferences. Self-loathing wasn't something that he enjoyed, so he had absolutely nothing against gay people.

What he _did_ have a problem with was sitting on a couch in front of him.

He was at a party. Kids were getting wasted left and right, Stan had gone off somewhere to make out with Wendy (they had managed to go about two months without breaking up again), Kenny was standing beside him, staring of at something (Red's rack, Kyle thought, but he wasn't going to ask), and, right in front of him . . .

Eric Cartman was making out with Leopold "Butters" Stotch.

It made him sick to look at them, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. They had been dating for about a week—the idea of Cartman dating anyone had been hysterical until it actually _happened—_but he still couldn't adjust to the sight of them together. It made sense, he supposed. Butters had always cared about the larger boy, God knows why, and who else was going to take Cartman's shit? Still, it had come as quite the shock to everyone at their lunch table—minus Kenny, who had let on like he had seen it coming a mile off (which he probably had)—when Butters sat down one day, kissed Cartman's chubby cheek, and offered him his pudding. Kyle could remember making a crack about Cartman not _needing _anymore pudding—the sight of Butters kissing Cartman's cheek was a rare but not completely unfamiliar one so it didn't stun him like it did most of the other kids at their table—but the older boy had ignored him for the most part (he had still told him to shut his "fucking Jew mouth"), instead choosing to wrap an arm around the blond boy and take him up on his offer of chocolate pudding.

Kyle hadn't liked being ignored. He had always thought that if the fatass ever left him alone, he'd be happy, but . . .

He was worried for Butters. That had to be it. He knew that Cartman would hurt him—the blond was fragile and Cartman was as much of a sociopath has he had been when they were kids—and he didn't want that to happen.

That didn't explain why he got the urge to hit _Butters _in the face every time he saw them together though.

"You'll wear your teeth out if you keep gritting them."

Kenny had apparently stopped staring long enough to notice _him _staring. He hadn't even realized that he _was_ gritting his teeth until the poorer boy said something. The surprise did nothing to lessen his irritation though; Kenny had his hood up—some things never change no matter _how_ much time goes by—but he could tell by the tone of voice he had used that he was _smirking. _Bastard. Knowing that it would only amuse him more and not caring, Kyle rolled his eyes.

"I don't get why they have to do that out in the open. No one needs to see that fatass kiss anybody."

Kenny made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat but chose not to say anything—for the time being. Kyle knew that it was only a matter of time before the boy made another smartassed—or perverted—comment. He decided to enjoy the silence while it lasted.

"You're jealous."

_'Well,_ Kyle mused, _'that lasted long. I'm surprised—'_

Kenny's accusation caught up to him before he could finish his thought. Him? Jealous? Butters was blond, which he didn't mind, but he also didn't prefer. Besides the color, the cut of his hair was unappealing; it reminded him of a star, which reminded him of his religion. Who wants to date a boy that reminds you of your religion when dating a boy is _against _your religion? Butters had nice eyes, but Kyle had always preferred brown eyes to blue, just like he had always preferred darker hair over blond hair. The boy was skinner than him, which was a turn off; Kyle had no intentions of behaving like the girl in a relationship (assuming he ever got one), but if he was going to date a boy, he wanted to actually date a _boy_ and not a feminine stick. The blond also had horrible taste in clothing—a Hello Kitty shirt? Seriously?—and he was pretty sure that the kid used some type of perfume; again, if Kyle was going to be gay, he wanted an actual _boy._ That lead Kyle to the biggest issue—Butters was a pussy. It was crude and a bit harsh, but it was true. If Kyle was going to be interested in someone, they couldn't behave like a baby. He wanted someone that wasn't going to back out if things got tough, someone that had charisma, someone that had spirit. He hated to admit it, but he wanted someone that he could argue with.

Butters wasn't his type at all.

"Why would I want Butters, dude? Cartman probably just wants to fuck him because of the color of his eyes and hair."

Surely enough, Cartman was running his plump fingers through yellow strands of hair. Butters seemed to be enjoying the attention. He was on Cartman's lap, his arms around broad shoulders. His face was pressed against Cartman's neck, and even though Kyle couldn't see it, he would bet money that the lithe boy had a blush on his face; Butters, though always eager to accept affection, seemed to get flustered by it easily if he was on the receiving end. Kyle could also imagine what the boy was saying—_"Oh Eric."_ Butters would be saying it quietly, but his need would be evident in his voice. Cartman, who had always had a thing for control, would be getting off on it. Pretty soon, they would probably find a room to go off to. (It seemed early considering they had only been dating or about a week, but it had always been obvious that Butters had a crush on Cartman, and there was no way that the larger boy would pass up free sex. How often would he get the chance to?) Kyle felt sick thinking about it. This time, at least, he realized that he was gritting his teeth.

"I'm not talking about Butters."

Just like that, Kenny was gone, presumably to ask Red for a dance. Kyle could hear him laughing all the way across the room and again, it took a minute for his words to sink in.

_'Jealous? He thinks I want Cartman?'_

Normally, he would laugh at such things. Since it came from _Kenny _though—Kenny who had known him for as long as he could remember, Kenny who was so good at observing people—he thought about what his friend said instead of just laughing it off.

_'Brown eyes and hair . . . larger than me . . . argues. . .'_

Sometimes, Kyle decided, he hated his life. Maybe he would become one of those self-hating fags after all. It wasn't until an hour later that he realized yes, Kenny _did _know about his sexual preference. He was too stunned about a different epiphany to care.


	2. Chapter 2

_His whole body was shaking from the strength of his sobs, but he didn't notice. How could he? He had other things on his mind . . ._

_The gun was still somewhere in the room. Where had it been dropped? The knife was somewhere by his feet, he knew. The bloody knife . . ._

_Would he be morbid for the rest of his life? Would he be crazy? Depressed? Would he go into permanent shock?_

_He couldn't think about himself though. The body was still in sight; he had closed his eyes, but there it was, behind his eyelids and in his mind. Would he ever **stop** thinking about it?_

_"Come on, we need to get out of here."_

_The other person was still there, he realized with a shock. They were shaking him; he was shaking just fine on his own, he didn't need their help, whoever it was. They were holding themselves together well, weren't they? Didn't they realize that there was a body **right there**? That someone would never see another sunrise? Would never get to say goodbye? Would never . . . would never . . . _

_The sobbing grew worse than it had been before._

Chapter Two

The Monday Following the Party

Lunch had once been his favorite period of the day. The food wasn't the greatest—he missed Chef—but he got to see his friends for a while, and it was after his most stressful class of the day—drama, which he had with Cartman. He had trouble tolerating one, but throwing them together?—so it gave him a bit of time to wind down. Of course, Cartman was also there, but he could look over the boy for half an hour if it ment he got to see Stan and Kenny.

Correction: he _used _to be able to tolerate Cartman for half an hour, and lunch _used _to be his favorite period of the day. It had grown to be unbearable during the first week of Buttman—that was what Kenny had labeled Butters and Cartman's relationship; personally, Kyle would rather reffer to it as Cutters, since watching them together made him want to cut his eyes out, but that was irrelevant. It wasn't that they were mushy; Butters sometimes got that way, but Eric Cartman would die before he ever got mushy over anyone. It definitely wasn't because they were gay—though, in all fairness, Kyle had the sneaking suspicion that they were both bi, even though neither mentioned it. It was because . . .

Kyle couldn't believe the reason. Kenny had pointed it out to him, and Kenny was almost always right about these things, but . . . Him? Jealous? Of _what_? Cartman was fat. Cartman was an asshole. Cartman was a _Nazi_, for fucks sake!

Eric Cartman _was_ overweight, but not to the point where he was unhealthy, like he had been when they were children. He _was_ an asshole, and he probably always would be, but at least he spoke his mind, right? Kyle couldn't stand two-faced people; it's part of the reason that even if he _wasn't_ gay, which he was one hundred percent sure he was, he would never date Bebe. Sure, the guy was manipulative, but at least with Cartman, you knew where you stood—usually; the guy could be really hard to figure out at times. As for being a Nazi . . . He still made remarks—Kyle doubted that would ever change—but he had never actually _done_ anything; the few times that he had tried to kill Kyle over the years hadn't been about religion, they had been about other—why was he doing this to himself? Why was he going through a mental list of Cartman's flaws and pointing out the reasons why they weren't so bad?

Self-loathing was going to become a constant for him, it seemed.

He had been agitated throughout all of lunch, and he was sure that Stan and Kenny had both noticed. Great. They would probably want to talk to him about it later, he was sure, to make sure that he was okay. At least Cartman didn't notice; he was too busy with Butters—was the boy rubbing his crotch under the table? It seemed like something was going on down there, but Kyle didn't want to look to make sure—and his food to notice anything else.

"The movie was really g-great last night, Eric. Thank you for taking me to s-see it."

Butters' stutter was doing nothing to calm Kyle's agitation; his voice alone was enough to annoy the redhead.

"No problem, Butters."

Dates. They were actually going on _dates_. Kyle couldn't picture Cartman dating. He was still having trouble picturing Cartman even _being_ in a relationship, despite it being in his face for at least half an hour five days a week. Pretty soon he would start letting Butters tag along with him when the group—even after making it to high school, Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and him hung out together—did things together.

Kyle was making it a habit to grit his teeth together when annoyed.

It was when Butters kissed the larger boy on the cheek that Kyle decided he had had enough for the day. It was almost time to go to their next block—a Cartman free one luckily—and if he left to go to the bathroom, it wouldn't look suspicious if he didn't come back. Besides, Kenny had been eying his lunch tray the whole period, and the boy looked like he could really use some food. Pushing his tray towards the skinny boy—Kyle knew, despite him wearing a hoodie all of the time, that Kenny was severely under weight—he announced that he was going to the bathroom and left without another word.

"What's his problem? Sand in his vagina again?"

Cartman _had_ noticed his behavior, though Kyle was too aggravated to notice the larger boy noticing him.

"Who knows? I'll talk to him about it later. Just stay out of it, Cartman."

Stan was, naturally, coming to the rescue as the best friend. Kenny was smirking, but he was too wrapped up in his lunch to say anything. Butters was too preoccupied with something under the table to make any input. And Eric? Eric was annoyed. He didn't like being told to fuck off, which was pretty much what Stan had said to him.

"Whatever, hippie. I don't want in your boyfriend's business anyway."

That, naturally, set Wendy off on a whine/rant. Cartman, being in no mood for it, ignored her, his eyes focusing on the door that Kyle had went out of.

"Here, Eric! I finally found—"

Butters had been digging around his school bag for a box of Pocky he had promised Eric (the hand movement that Kyle had seen), but the boy had forgotten about it; he stood up from his seat, interrupting the blond mid-sentence, and pushed his own tray towards Kenny; he would usually throw it away just to be cruel, but his mind was elsewhere.

"I need to take a piss."


	3. Chapter 3

_He was hyperventilating by the time that they finally got him into the ambulance. It was ironic, really: he was a mess of air and he was riding in the back with . . the body. The body. He would have to get used to calling it that. Someone that he had known for years was now just a body._

_Irony was the last thing on his mind._

_He was screaming something, but he couldn't make out what. It was crazy; he was **screaming **something, and he knew that he was screaming something, but he had no idea what it was. At least he was aware of **something** though; there was a body of a young man wrapped inside of a black body bag right next to him, and that young man would never be aware of anything ever again._

_The ambulance drove over a bump in the road, and as he tossed his lunch back up, he selfishly wished that it was **him** who could no longer be aware. Life was going to be hell from here on out._

_Life had already been hell for him though. _

_Someone was rubbing his back, but he couldn't focus on them long enough to figure out who it was._

_"I can't believe this **happened** . ."_

_Whoever it was, he agreed with them._

_The other person was sobbing. They were clinging to him, and he could feel them shake. Who did he know that was **left** to hug him? _

_Why were they riding with the body? Wasn't there supposed to be a different vehicle for it?_

_Did someone find the gun? Would they find the prints on it? What about . . . _

_. . . What about the knife? **His **prints were on the knife. _

_Another bump in the road._

_This time, he didn't have anything left to throw up._

Chapter Two

The Monday Following the Party

Kyle was washing his hands when Cartman threw the bathroom doors open, waltzing in as if he owned the place. He couldn't help but roll his eyes; even after years of being around the boy, his attitude still got on Kyle's nerves. Some things would never change, no matter how Kyle felt. It was a good thing, too; just because he might care about Cartman a bit more—okay, a _lot _more—than he wanted, it didn't mean that he could start forgiving the things that the fatass did. If he was to do that, the world would go to hell. Again._ ". . .it was Cartman's filthy fucking mouth that saved us all." _Kyle stopped himself from that train of thought; he knew from past experiences that it would only lead him to think that Cartman might not be such a bad guy after all, and then he would get suckered into doing something stupid by the boy.

"What's up, Jew?"

The overweight boy stood by the closest urinal next to Kyle and unzipped his pants. Kyle was tempted to look—Eric was overweight but he was still _hot_, though he would never admit it—but he forced his eyes to focus on his hands. His childhood friend—even if they had fought, that was what Kyle thought of the boy as—was pissing in front of him as if it was the most natural thing in the world, even going as far as trying to strike up a conversation.

"I bet Wendy'll kill your boyfriend, Jew. She looked pretty pissed off."

Boyfriend? Cartman had developed a habit over the years of calling Stan that, and it usually made Wendy mad, but he hadn't done it while Kyle was there. Had they been . . .

"You were talking about me, fatass?"

He had trouble trying to stomp out the fear in his stomach. Had Cartman noticed something was off with him after all? Had one of the other guys said something?

"No shit, Jew."

They rolled their eyes at the same time, neither noticing the other's reaction. Cartman zipped his pants back up and the sound made Kyle realize that he had been washing his hands for far longer than necessary. He turned away from the other boy to dry them, and the sound of sink water running could be heard. The bell rung before either of them were done with their tasks.

"I'm skipping. You coming?"

Cartman had also picked up the habit of skipping classes over the years. Kyle had only joined him on two occasions—two occasions that the school had called his mom about. It was dangerous, and it was stupid. It had been fun though, and Kyle was really not in the mood to go to his next block. Was he in the mood to spend extra time with Cartman—and probably Butters? Or to get screamed at by his mother?

He turned to face the larger boy. Cartman was drying his hands off on his jeans, not bothering with the dryer that was behind Kyle. His hair was peeking out from beneath his hat, the top buttons of his jacket were undone, and his face was flushed. Embarrassment? Kyle doubted it; Eric Cartman wasn't one for blushing. He had probably ran out of breath after speaking too much, the fatass; the school's heaters were cranked up too though, the probable cause for Cartman's jacket to be unbuttoned, and the heat was probably getting to him. He had a "just fucked" look about him though, and it was distracting. Kyle decided that it was safer just to focus on his eyes—chestnut eyes that were entirely focused on him for the first time in what felt like weeks.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming."

**A/N: **Well... It sucks and it's under 1,000 words, but I felt like I should update, and then I was rushed. I apologize for this. Hopefully it'll get better.


	4. Chapter 4

_He was running, running, always running. _

_It hard started in his dreams. He had been a few years younger, fourteen at the youngest, and something—he had never been sure of **what—**had set it off. Every night, it would happen; he would close his eyes, and after counting sheep for half an hour or so, he would drift off, only to be welcomed by . . . He wasn't sure. He could never see **what **he was running from. With everything that went down in his town, it was untelling. His therapist had once suggested that maybe he was running from **himself, **but since he didn't find himself terrifying—and the dreams caused him pure terror, terror like nothing he had ever felt before, terror like the terror that gripped him and squeezed his chest every single time that he thought about a body that he would never be able to forget—he thought the idea was ludicrous. He had seen plenty of monsters, and he knew that he wasn't one of them. Or, he did before there was a corpse in front of him, reminding him that the world wasn't a very nice place . . . But that had been after the dreams had started, so no, he couldn't be running from himself. Why would he? It was something else. It had to be. _

_The imaginary demon, if that was what it was, became a real one—then another, and then another. Instead of running from something he couldn't see, he began running from monsters that he couldn't wake up to escape from. He kept trying though. He couldn't give up. There was another boy who was worse off than himself, and he needed to help him. He needed to get free. He needed to . . . run. After all, if you're locked up and trying to escape from a psychiatric ward, you're going to **have **to run from orderlies at some point, right? He had to keep running. He had to help. . . or die trying._

Chapter Four

That Same Day

Though Butters—thankfully—wasn't in the vehicle with them, it was still an awkward trip to wherever they were going. Kyle couldn't remember the last time they had been alone together, though if he had to guess, he would say it was before school had started back, maybe even before summer. He couldn't think of anything to say to the larger boy. Luckily for him though, he didn't have to; perhaps feeling the same way as Kyle did, Eric turned on the radio, the music drowning out any failed attempts at a conversation.

The scenery slowly passed by; though Eric would occasionally exhibit a bout of road rage, he was usually a good driver, and today was no different. He seemed good at everything, if Kyle thought about it—well, everything but controlling his temper and fighting. If it came to cheating, manipulating, _lying—_Kyle had to stop himself. It would do him no good to become irritated while stuck inside of a moving vehicle—Eric's truck—with a sociopath.

He couldn't remember the last time that Eric had tried to hurt him, either. The brunette really hadn't been paying much attention to him lately, and though it shouldn't bother him, though he knew he should feel relief, it did. He could remember replacing Stan as his best friend for Eric when they were kids, and he didn't want that to happen to him—he didn't want to be left behind. They had less than two years left in school, and neither boy planned on staying in South Park after graduation. It was a thought that had excited him as a child, but now. . .

His risked a glance at his friend, and his fists clenched.

Eric was going to move to—where was it? New York? Stan, who was still drinking pretty heavily, would probably stay in South Park, along with Kenny, and Kyle himself planned on going to school out of state, but Cartman. . . In a few years, there was a very real possibility that he would say his final goodbye to his childhood friend. He would be visiting his parents, so he would see the other two again, but who knew what would happen to Cartman? He could get stabbed to death or anything, and Kyle had heard the boy say that once he was gone, there was no way he would ever move back to their white-trash mountain town.

He was starting to make himself sick.

"Cartman. . ."

He had spoken without planning out what he was going to say, but it didn't matter; as Eric pulled into their stop, he gave no acknowledgement that he had heard Kyle.

Kyle glanced up as the truck came to a stop. They were outside of Shakey's, and though they had just come from lunch, he wasn't the least bit surprised. He got out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him, without a word, and went inside without waiting for Eric to lock up his truck.

...

Eric drummed his thick fingers against the booth's tabletop while they waited for their pizza. The silence hung heavily between them; it had worsened after Eric had snapped at Kyle for slamming his truck's door and Kyle had called him a few choice names he hadn't used in what felt like years—and maybe it had been. Kyle didn't know anymore.

Kyle glanced at Cartman once more. The brunette had his elbow on the table, his cheek propped against his palm. He was watching with mild interest someone across the room, and as Kyle followed his gaze, his fists clenched again—Cartman was checking some guy, old enough to be their father, out. His irritation bubbled over, and he finally snapped.

Eric had been watching the man because he was sure that the guy was one of the creeps his mom had slept with, and he was waiting for a chance to embarrass him somehow, but Kyle would never know that.

"Cartman. . ."

This time Cartman did hear him. Chestnut eyes met a pair of green ones lazily, a question written in them. He didn't voice it though, waiting for the redhead to say what he wanted instead. Kyle eventually would, he knew, and he would probably blow up about whatever it was that was obviously bothering him—which was half the fun of talking to the boy. It was a quality that his usual company these days lacked, unfortunately.

"Where are you—"

Of course that would be when their waitress chose to bring their food to them. Kyle, frustrated, waited while Cartman dug into the pizza he had ordered, but eventually started again, knowing that it would be a while before his friend got done eating.

"Cartman! Where are you moving to after school?"

He had to scream to get the other's attention, but their eyes locked once more. After the question was out in the open, he regretted it. Who knew how far away it would be? Cartman could change his mind, anyway, and there was no point in stressing out about something that was still a bit far aw—

"I don't know yet, Kahl."

The sociopath was smirking, and the sight, one Kyle hadn't seen directed at him in what felt like forever, caused his irritation to die down and his stomach to drop.

"Why? Did you want to come with?"


End file.
